


Colour Me Crazy

by OhSnap9292



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Domestic, Kid Fic, M/M, Parentlock, Slice of Life, Surrogacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:45:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhSnap9292/pseuds/OhSnap9292
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had known from the moment he decided to enter into this relationship with Sherlock that it would be like no relationship he had ever been in before. First of all, the man was, well, a man, and secondly, Sherlock kept body parts in the fridge, regularly consumed what seemed to equal out at two thousand calories a week, and had taken it upon himself to invent his own job. So, no. Sherlock was definitely not the two kids and a dog, white picket fence in the country kind of guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colour Me Crazy

**Author's Note:**

> This was inpired by a post I came across on tumblr that said "Imagine your OTP arguing about what color to choose for their new baby's bedroom." This is my first fic in the Sherlock fandom and I have no current beta so any mistakes are my own that I have missed during editing.

John had known from the moment he decided to enter into a relationship with Sherlock that it would be unlike any relationship he had been in before. First of all, the man was, well, a man, and secondly, Sherlock kept body parts in the fridge, regularly consumed what seemed to balance out at a mere two thousand calories a week, and had taken it upon himself to invent his own job. So, no. Sherlock was definitely not the two kids and a dog, white picket fence in the country kind of guy. Furthest thing from it, in fact. When John had pictured his future before he met Sherlock, before Afghanistan even, that was always the kind of lifestyle he had envisioned for himself. He imagined he would settle down with a nice girl, maybe open up a practice of his own somewhere out in the country, like Surrey or Berkshire and live a quiet, simple life.

Then he found himself in the military, invading a desert and getting shot at and things had changed. _He_ had changed. John still thought of his simple little family in the country, but it no longer seemed like a possibility for him. More of a happy daydream to distract him through the bad times. When he was invalided home, the dream became attainable again, but sitting lonely and depressed in his little bedsit, the thought couldn't bring even the smallest of smiles to his face.

If a wife, two kids, and a dog couldn't pull him out of a spiraling depression, what could? The answer came in the form of a frantically energetic, socially inept consulting detective by the name of Sherlock Holmes. When he moved in with Sherlock, his life became a whirlwind of activity, starting with a woman in pink, abruptly ending when Sherlock leapt from St. Bart's, and beginning again, just as abruptly when, three years later he opened the door to find a thinner, shaggier looking Sherlock on the front step. For roughly ten seconds he debated in his mind whether he should hit the man or kiss him. He settled on both.

In the time Sherlock had been "dead" though, John had begun once more to envision himself as a white picket fence man. However, when give the option of a cookie-cutter country lifestyle or the excitement and spontaneity that Sherlock offered him on a regular basis, the choice seemed like a bit of a no-brainer. So, while the thought of a family and a normal life seemed nice, it was just that, a thought. Something he kept tucked away, long forgotten in the back of his mind, along with the other dusty dreams that he had since grown out of.

So, all that being said, after four brilliant, insane, maddening years with Sherlock, the doctor had trouble masking his surprise when one evening during a quiet dinner out at Angelo's, Sherlock sprung a question on John, speaking in a tone that suggested he already knew what the answer would be. "John, what are your thoughts on adoption?"

After John had gotten over his initial shock (and stopped choking on his ravioli), his and Sherlock's lives became a bustle of conversations and appointments and stacks upon stacks of paperwork. They talked for weeks, discussing the merits of adopting versus finding a surrogate, arguing over whether or not their child should be sent to public school, and whispering softly to each other about potential names while spooned up together in the quiet of their bedroom.

Once all the talking was over, they began making appointments with a surrogate agency, appointments with lawyers, and appointments with Mycroft to ensure that nothing could possibly go wrong. Of course, with appointments came paperwork, something Sherlock was rather disinterested in, finding the repetitive forms exceedingly dull. But, it being necessary, John stayed up long nights to finish it all, checking and rechecking each form so as not to miss anything that might hold them back from having a child. Despite not assisting John in filling out the forms, Sherlock was never too far from the doctor while he worked, blanketing the room with soft strains of music with his violin.

Before John had the time to truly process it all in his mind, they had found a surrogate mother who fit even Sherlock's toughest criteria. After interviewing a twenty three year old called Samantha , they agreed she was the one. She was a few inches shorter than John, but with a slimmer, more athletic build. Bobbed black hair framed her face, and her eyes were a piercing blue, so light they almost rivaled Sherlock's. Samantha possessed a genius level IQ, something the detective was extremely adamant about, and was working towards a degree in engineering but was a bit strapped for cash which was why she had applied to be a part of the surrogacy program in the first place. The only concerns John had were history of diseases or addictions and once they sorted through her family medical records, John declared that they had found their mother.

Mere weeks after the papers were signed and filed, John received a phone call from the surrogate agency letting he and Sherlock know that Samantha had successfully conceived and were told that he would continue to receive calls following all of Samantha's future sonograms and doctor appointments to discuss any updates or complications that may have arisen.

Fortunately, the phone calls had all remained rather routine, detailing the child's size and assuring them both that he pregnancy was going off without a hitch. Five months into the pregnancy, John was surprised to pick up the phone to hear Samantha's voice on the other end. Panic surged up in his gut but she quashed it right away.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, it's just that I found out the sex of the child at my appointment this morning and thought you might want the picture to hang on your fridge."

John breathed a sigh of relief and waved a hand in dismassal at Sherlock who had seen John stiffen when he answered the phone and was now staring at him , brows furrowed with something akin to concern. "Oh, thank God. Yes, that would be lovely. Sherlock and I would be happy to see it."

And so, despite Sherlock's protestations that he would rather lie about the house in his pyjamas than go to a café, they found themselves downstairs at Speedy's sitting across from a much heavier Samantha. With a gentle smile she pulled a fuzzy, black and white photograph from her purse and slid it across the table.

"Congratulations, you two. It's a boy!"

John face cracked into a wide smile that nearly screamed 'proud father.' Sherlock, for his part, was much more subdued. He stared down at the printout with a sort of disbelieving fondness.

John nudged the detective's shoulder lightly. "What's the matter, then? I thought you'd be happy. A little, mini Sherlock you can train to deduce just like you. And anyways,  I thought girls 'weren't really your area so a boy should be easy,'" he said, quoting Sherlock from years back, laughter in his tone.

"It's just... I- John. Our son." He lifted the photograph and gently cradled it in his palms. " _Our_  son, John."

John's smile turned tender and he moved to cup Sherlock's face in his hands and pressed their lips together. "Yes, Sherlock. That's our boy"

* * *

 

When the pair had recovered from their initial euphoria, they began to discuss potential names more seriously. Mycroft had sent them a list of suggested family names to choose from but Sherlock didn't even spare it a glance before he tore it up and tossed it in the rubbish bin. John spent hours researching potential names he liked and then took his seat across from Sherlock's armchair and began to read down the list. Sherlock responded by rejecting every single name that John had come up with, declaring them all to be too 'dull' or 'boring,' some even getting marked as 'plebian.'

Eventually, John threw his arms up in exasperation, the list falling to the floor. "I haven't heard you helping any."

"That's because I selected a name a long time ago."

"Really," John said, flatly. "Well, what is it then?"

Sherlock smiled and simply stated "Hamish."

"Hamish Watson-Holmes, then?" he asked, humming thoughtfully. "Hm, I think I rather like the sound of that."Sherlock gave him a look gave John the impression he had known that all along, so he wiped it away by throwing a pillow in the detectives face.

* * *

 

The name issue settled, John began to throw himself into the final preparations for their son. The baby books had been read from cover to cover, he had brushed up on his knowledge of pediatric medicine, and baby proofed the flat to the best of his abilities, considering Sherlock Holmes lived there. He had even stocked up on diapers, baby formula, and a chestful of colorful toys that were supposed to facilitate development in babies and toddlers. When John brought them home, Sherlock had only scoffed at them before turning back to a strange experiment that involved some rather foul smelling, liquefied body parts. John chose not to pursue an argument.

At one month out from the prospective due date of their son, the last thing left to do was convert the second bedroom, the one that had belonged to John until he and Sherlock began sharing a room, into a proper nursery. John had read in the baby books that this was an important step in the preparations for expecting couples. However,  the authors of those books probably hadn't considered Sherlock Holmes when they were writing them, John thought, because standing in the hardware store paint aisle, attempting to select a color for their son's new bedroom, Sherlock seemed as though he could not possibly care less about any of it.

John heaved an exasperated sigh at his partner who, ten minutes ago, had told him to give him "just two minutes" before immediately becoming engrossed in texting Lestrade about the details of a murder case where all the leads had suddenly gone cold.

"Sherlock, do you think we ought to go with a shade of blue or do you want to do something a bit less traditional?"he asked for the third time, holding up an ocean of paint swatches sporting names like "Athens Blue" and "Sweet Bluette." If a bit of an edge crept into his tone, John felt that it was justified.

"John, really, if you think I care about something as trivial as what shade of blue you're going to paint our sons room, you're an even bigger idiot than Anderson," he replied, sounding bored. His eyes never once left the phone in his hands.

John halted in flipping through color swatches and took a deep, calming breath. He  _really_  did not want to have a row with the man in the middle of a shop again. Not after that time at the Tesco's. "Sherlock, please. This is important." Sherlock snorted at that. "Hey, you're the one that suggested all this in the first place. You could at least pretend to be interested."

"Yes, but why does  _this_ ," he gestured a hand carelessly, "matter? Because all your silly little books say so? Honestly, John. People have been raising children for hundreds of years without any assistance from your Doctor Spock. The color of a room isn't going to determine what type of child we raise any more than the brand of shoes you wear would."

"Right. Okay." John said coolly, setting the paint swatches back in their rightful places. With sure, quick strides John made his way towards the door, and anywhere that Sherlock  _wasn't_.

Sherlock obviously hadn't been expecting that reaction because he finally tore his eyes away from his phone to follow John's back. "John, wait, where are you going?"

"Just need some air," he bit out, without turning around. Not wanting to hear anything more from Sherlock, he slipped out of the shop and shut the door behind him with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

* * *

 

After trekking across what felt like half of London, John felt like he had let off enough steam that he could return home to Sherlock without feeling to need to immediately engage him in what Mrs. Hudson almost affectionately called "a bit of a domestic." Anyways, Sherlock was likely to be sulking on the couch having a sulk or possibly in the morgue at Bart's so John figured the chances that the detective would attempt anything akin to human interaction were slim to none.

When he opened the front door of 221B, John immediately began to salivate at the aroma of food wafting down the stairs. He smelled what could only be takeaway from his favorite Chinese restaurant and  his stomach growled in anticipation. Quickly, he made his way up the steps, shrugging off his coat along the way. When he entered the living area, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. However,  _Goldfinger_ , which happened to be John's favorite Bond film, was queued up and ready to watch on the telly.

"Hungry, John?" The doctor turned at the sound of Sherlock's voice to see him standing in the entrance to the kitchen, holding a plate in either hand, both steeped high with steaming Chinese food. His face was pinched with a look the blonde came to recognize as the "I've upset John and that upsets me" look. John let out a small puff of a laugh, realizing this was as close to saying "I'm sorry" as Sherlock could ever come. He'd take it.

Settling down in front of the television, he pulled Sherlock's armchair snug against his own and patted the seat in invitation. "Starved."

Sherlock's features immediately softened and any tension in his body disappeared. He handed John one of the plates before easing into his own seat, curling his legs underneath him. John started the movie and tucked in, not realizing how hungry he was until he had started eating. Sherlock picked at his meal until John finished his own and then set his plate on the end table by his chair. He laid his head on John's shoulder and forced himself to refrain from commenting on how inane the film was, and when the film finished, he got up unasked and started up another one.

They went to bed that night, argument forgotten, curled up in each other's warmth.

* * *

 

Three days after their impromptu Bond movie marathon, John returned home from a shift at the surgery with the intention of changing out of his work clothes and then popping down to ask Mrs. Hudson if she might be willing to accompany him to the hardware store to help pick out a color so he could finally paint his unborn sons room. If Sherlock didn't want to get involved in this one thing then fine, John would drop it, but that didn't mean he didn't at least want a second opinion from someone.

Those plans were immediately thrown to the back burner though as soon as John stepped over the threshold to his flat. Sherlock was seated in the middle of the floor, surrounded by several open books, stacks of papers, and bits of brightly coloured chipboard. Both John's and Sherlock's own laptop sat open and on in front of the man, each opened displaying different but equally colorful web pages.

There was no way John could ask Mrs. Hudson to go anywhere with him when Sherlock had made such a catastrophic mess. She would have both their heads if she saw the state of the place. Worse yet, it was probably going to take all afternoon to sort out, which meant John was going to have to put off the trip to the hardware store for another time. Still, he couldn't help but shake his head fondly at the man sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Looks like you've been busy. Got a new case on, have we?"

Sherlock's head snapped up at John's voice, not having noticed him enter as he was far too engrossed in whatever it was he had been researching. "John!" He said excitedly. "John, we must go down to the hardware store!"

"What, right now?"

"Yes, right now. Come along, John." He hopped up from what was now the only remaining bare spot on the floor and walked over to his coat, paying little mind to the papers littering the carpet.

"Hold on just a minute here," John said, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and holding him in place, preventing him from sliding out between the doctor and the doorframe. "What's this all about? At least tell me what kind of case this is before we go running off."

"Not a case," he responded, speaking as though that should have been obvious to John. "Did you know that purple has been shown to promote intuition and creativity in the brain?"

John blinked at the non sequiter but Sherlock, not seeming to notice, continued on. "However, yellows have been proven to stimulate the mental processes and even improve memory. Only brighter yellows, mind you. Dull yellow has the potential to bring on feelings of fear which is certainly not what we want. Perhaps we could find a way to combine both to maximize the effect."

"Combine them for what?" John felt as though he had missed something but with Sherlock, that wasn't outside the realm of possibilities.

"Our son's bedroom of course, do keep up."

"Of cou- No, hold on, Sherlock. Three days ago you said it didn't even matter and now all of a sudden you're, wait-" a thought occurred to John. "Are you researching color psychology? Is that what all this mess is about?" He was torn between feelings of frustration and affection for the man who was now struggling to escape his grip and out the door.

"Yes, well that was _before_ I found out the effect color can have on the brain." he replied in a tone that implied he thought John had been intentionally harboring this information from him the entire time. "I can use something as simple as color to potentially facilitate intelligence in our child."

"I- well, yes. But Sherlock," he was still experiencing whiplash from Sherlock's complete one-eighty, "look at this place. Mrs. Hudson will murder us both if she sees the flat in this state."

"Not an issue. Mrs. Hudson is currently off visiting her sister." Seeing the slight frown still tugging at John's lips  he added with a sigh "I'll clean it up when we get back."

"You had better. And you'd better help me paint the room, too, Sherlock. I'm not going to be doing it all by myself." He fixed the man with what he hoped was a stern look but whether or not it actually weighed into the detective's decision, John wasn't sure.

"Yes, of course John. As if I would let you handle something so important to our child's development by yourself. Now, let's go." With that he grabbed john by the wrist and tugged John out the door and down the steps.

* * *

 

In the end, after spending nearly two hours in the hardware shop debating over various shades and hues, sifting through colors with names like "Sunflower", "Rhapsody Lilac", and "Dynamic Magenta" ("What's so dynamic about it?" "It's just a name, Sherlock"), they finally agreed on "Lemon Sorbet" for the walls and "Amethyst Jewel" for the trim. They picked up a tarp and brushes as well, and were on their way.

Upon their arrival home, Sherlock remained true to his word and picked up every book, sheet of paper, and paint swatch off the floor and when he was done John dragged him into the bedroom to change into clothes suitable for painting. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock owned nothing that John would classify as casual clothing and so he forced the taller man into one of his own old Army t-shirts he used to work out in as well as a faded pair of slightly too-short jeans. John changed into a similar outfit and declared them both fit for work.

Together they laid out the tarp and taped off the moulding. They covered the walls in the vivid yellow they had chosen, Sherlock all the while rattling off his newly acquired information on the psychology of color while John listened intently. When the first coat was finished, John took the opportunity to take a break and stood in the center of the room to admire their handiwork so far. It looked fantastic, and as an added bonus he had managed to do minimal damage to his clothing which was more than he could say for Sherlock. The man was smeared from head to toe in the vibrant paint, bare feet leaving sunny colored footprints on the tarp with every step he took.  _"Thank God for that,"_ John thought.  _"Otherwise, I'd never hear the end of it from Mrs. Hudson."_

Sherlock joined him in the center of the room, looking pleased with himself. John couldn't help but laugh as he looked up at him. He wiped gently with his thumb at a golden streak decorating one of Sherlock's high cheekbones.

Before, John had always thought that he was giving up the white picket fence life for the life he lead with Sherlock. A trade that, in all honesty, seemed fair but still didn't keep him from dreaming about it every now and again. Never once has he considered these two lives could merge, meeting somewhere in the middle. The possibility of a happy medium had not even crossed his mind. Leave it to the worlds only consulting detective to piece something like that together.

John slipped a hand behind Sherlock's head and pulled him down for a gentle, undemanding kiss and savored it, knowing that these were going to be the last few weeks of peace and quiet they would have together before their son was born and a whole new chapter in their lives together began. He couldn't wait.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it! If you see any mistakes, feel free to let me know.


End file.
